I hate it. I want it. I need it. Please, Sir, whip away my sins!

My bruises disappoint me.
The brevity of my punishment disappoints me.
I expected more.
I expected worse.
I was relieved when it ended.
Scared and grateful when he beat me again.
It wasn't enough.
As a punishment it wasn't enough.
Cleanse me, Sir.
Whip my guilt away.
Tie down my arms so I can't
protect
my tits from your belt.
Make me suffer enough to atone.

I can never suffer enough to atone.

And it did do the job.
Even though you didn't choke me.
Even though the chain stayed out of your hands,
away from that most vulnerable
hole
between my legs.
You didn't bring a new
strip
of wood
to use as a
cane
in place of the one I angrily discarded
when I left you.

You were my Tam Lin
but I didn't hold on
as
enchanted
you changed from one
fearsome beast
to another.
I was scared.
I was angry.
So I ran.
And then looked for you in
every
other
man
I met.

Can your belt beat out of me that guilt?

Not really.
Not ever.

But spanking my pussy as you held my legs apart
Whipping with anger, with love and with lust
You slashed to shreds my stubborn will
As if with the knife you're
forbidden
to bring in the house
closing your ears and sadistic soul to the
siren song of
my belly.

I sobbed.
I suffered.
I surrendered my soul.
And offered myself to
everything

everything

I ran from before.

Oh Matron Saint of Foolish Vows,
please help me keep my word!

Beneath the carapace

He thinks a lot of himself.
Or so he says.
He wants me to know that he thinks a lot of himself.

Such a mammoth ego.
A mammoth ego needing so much support.
Wanting constant massaging,
like his lovely cock,
hungry for attention
from hand and mouth and more
to keep it smartly hard.

Such vulnerability.
Such beautiful vulnerability.
Does he know that's something I love about him?

He tries to hide it.

And now.
As we sort things out.
It took me ever so long to see.
He had to say it nearly straight out.

He needs to save face.

He does know he triggered it.
He knows the beast escaped.
He knows he didn't protect me.

But what he focuses on is what I did to him, how I left without a word, how I tossed away 7 years (actually 6 and a half) because of half an hour (seemed more like an hour), how I waffled about whether it was over or not...

Because.
Because he knows what he did.
He knows the effect it had on me.

But he needs to feel - to pretend - that he was the one who was wronged. Like when he has trouble cumming because of too much to drink, and he says it will be all my fault if he can't cum even though he knows - and I know - that it's not my fault at all. Sometimes, after, he has even said that, reassured me, that he knows it wasn't my fault but he needs to act like it was.

So I'm being good and doing as he says and accepting that he has doubts. And he has always had doubts, it has always been hard to fully believe that I do love him, do want to fully give myself over to him, even though I do sometimes fight it and run scared because really, given issues I've always had with authority even as I've so badly needed someone to take control, is it any surprise that some sense of rebellion remains?

In fact, he's got a plan that seems to be working. He's wise for us to ease back in. And what he so badly needs is to feel that he's back in control.

Which is also why he won't let me masturbate.

I love it that he won't let me masturbate.
Just as I love how sweetly he stroked me
as I even more sweetly sucked on his cock.

Looming disaster. As always.

Of course... yes, of course, those who've been reading me for years should have seen this coming... while I've been waxing poetic over our relationship and the things he doesn't say, here off the page there's been a storm brewing. A lifting cloud for him, a flash of lightening for me, a new complication for us to face and discuss, a new reality to shake the ground.

And I'm so easily shaken. I start off, still floating, hovering over the perturbed sea, sure we can sort things out. Except that the more we allow comments to slip out our fingers onto the computer keys, the more we say things that don't have the effect we expect or intend.  And yes, I admit that my current hormonal condition, that every other week hormonal flare, has made me more prone to emotional turmoil.

Which of course makes him crazy.

I fully accept that dealing with me could make someone crazy.
Which is a pity.
Since till now he'd been feeling rather guilty.
Because the current problem is definitely his fault.
Which he knows.
And regrets.

And me?
So busy trying to keep things exactly the same,
so busy berating myself for my own part in it all,
and so busy trying to assure him of my love
that I can't allow myself to be justifiably pissed off.

Every time things are beautiful
poised in the air
posed in the light
peaceful and beautiful and sweet
something
always
happens.
It's in the stage directions.
Enter stage right.
Trouble.

The next Act is yet to be written.

Technological sabotage? Or brain death?

Thank you, Travis Tritt.

Can we put this one down to a failure at Yahoo?
Or just to a misunderstanding on my part?
I don't know.
I just don't know.
But I was moping around this afternoon,
trying to nap this afternoon,
listening to songs that made me cry,
or songs that crying makes me want to listen to,
and I couldn't help myself.

Even knowing (or thinking I knew) that he had chosen to turn his back and walk away because something I said distressed him so much, I couldn't stand to not reach out. I was listening to Travis Tritt sing Anymore, which makes me cry under the best of circumstances, and then subjected myself to whatever else on the same album of greatest hits seemed to fit my mood. Proving, I guess, that I'm a masochist after all. Emotionally, any way. Eventually, I hit Tell Me I was Dreaming.

Tell me I was dreaming  
That you didn't leave me here to cry  
You didn't say you don't love me anymore  
And it was just my imagination telling lies

And then?

I sent him the link to the song.

Because I couldn't stand the silence.

He responded with Dylan's You're a Big Girl Now.

I’m going out of my mind, oh, oh
With a pain that stops and starts
Like a corkscrew to my heart
Ever since we’ve been apart

My reply: My World is Empty Without You.

Shorthand.

Powerful.

But not the main point.

Here's the main point.

He said it had been my choice.

That I had stopped communicating.

Which I hadn't.

Or didn't think I had.

In fact, I thought it was HE who had gone silent,

in displeasure over my message of Thursday night.

I didn't go silent.

I heard nothing in reply but didn't go silent.

I sent a brief good morning on Friday,

and then heard nothing all day.

And nothing today.

I thought he had gone silent.

With displeasure.

Perhaps he just had nothing to say, and expected me to keep reporting in. Perhaps I was so upset Thursday night that I couldn't imagine his not responding in some way - whereas in fact it's true that sometimes he just doesn't respond. If he has nothing to contribute, he doesn't respond. Thinking about it more as I write here, he was probably just ignoring what he saw as a tantrum and expecting me to carry on with my assignment.

Without complaining.

Even as I write, it becomes clearer. 

It's not even what I thought as we wrote back and forth today.

I thought he must not have gotten my messages.

Maybe he didn't get the Thursday night message.

Or the Friday good morning.

That's what I assumed.

Whereas in fact he was just ignoring my emotional outburst.

Which was probably just as well.

Had my brain shut down due to the extreme heat?

Could be.

It was hovering almost to 100 the last few days.

This is how it happens.

Again and again, this is how it happens.

It's more likely to be misunderstandings than anything else.

And I was so upset Thursday night

that I didn't even realize the fault was mine.

Even as, this afternoon, he gave me the chance to beg to be allowed to crawl back, I couldn't understand why he was pissed with me when I was sure it was just a matter of lost messages. It has happened before. Yahoo (which I don't use) can really mess up sometimes. But it wasn't that at all. He was Daddy, waiting for his little girl to settle down and get back to my chores, eventually thinking I had run away from home, and feeling the hurt and rejection that I felt when I thought he had been the one to walk away.

I'm not to bother him again tonight.

We'll see what happens when we talk again tomorrow.

Oh.

And the last song I offered?

After the begging?

Love Has No Pride.

But if you want me to beg,

I'll fall down on my knees.

Asking for you to come back.

I'd be pleading for you to come back.

Begging for you to come back to me.

How Can I Keep from Smiling?

Damn.
I did it again.
And I was reminding myself not to!

Smile, that is.
I smiled when he arrived.

Not at first.
He came in the door and I stood there naked and adoring.
Not smiling.
Feeling his eyes inspect me.
Approve of me.
A brief smile graced his lips and was gone.
His smile was gone and I was lost.
Because my mouth couldn't keep from responding to his.

It was just a small smile!
And was gone as fast as his as I realized what my mouth had done.
How my mouth had betrayed me.

Of course, he saw the smile.
And saw the Oops! in my eyes.

No.
He didn't beat me.
He said nothing.
Not until I mentioned it myself at the end of his visit.
He could have done something.
But that's not where he wanted to go this time.

On the other hand, he did spank me.
Three times, I think.
Plus some occasional swats here and there.
Delicious.
Perfect.
With a later one that was quite hard but didn't really hurt.
I could feel that the impacts were quite hard, but they didn't hurt.
They just took me deeper and deeper into that place...

And now, hours later, I'm still all floaty and soft.

And very happy.

From behind the gauze curtain, the naked silhouette speaks

She confesses.
The title of this post means nothing.
But I wanted something more creative than"Update."
Or "Yes, I'm still here."

There's been this and that.
A cold.
Yom Kippur.
Continued cautious work on our relationship.

I was supposed to have been heading north this weekend on a ridiculous task for my parents, but happily my participation has been cancelled for a variety of reasons. However, that meant the fiend had not set aside time for a visit tomorrow - which is just as well as he is one of the few men I know not to claim that he never gets sick. So he wouldn't have come anyway. I don't know if he can manage a visit on any other day this week.

Things are still in one of their periodic states of flux. He is feeling sensitive, I think, and has told me to avoid words that imply ownership. So I address him as Sir and as Daddy. I am still his pet. I am still his little girl. There is still a struggle over one particular issue.

Leading up to Yom Kippur, I was very penitent and distressed at my role in our upheavals. He said I had nothing to atone to him for. I was touched. We both struggle - with what we feel, with what we expect, with what we hope for, and with who we are. I'm starting to believe those struggles will never end. Sometimes a hard steel wall comes down in front of my feelings, and I imagine myself walking away.

Eventually, always, I realize I can't.

I am who I am now because of him.
Because he freed me to be myself.
Because my service gives me strength.
Because he believes in me and wants me to believe in myself.

Yom Kippur was wonderful. All the High Holy Day services were particularly meaningful this year, on both a spiritual and a personal level. There was a theme of doubt and questioning and struggle and faith. Elie Wiesel said that without doubt there could be no faith. A new friend - a Jew by Choice (one of many in our GLBT congregation) - said that when she converted she was asked all sorts of questions but never whether she believed in God. As someone who is extremely uneasy about this whole God business, I found the whole discussion very comforting and accepting.

And as I write about it now, I find reassurance on a personal level as well. Perhaps the doubts, the struggles, with respect to exactly what the sadist sees me to be and expects me to do, perhaps these recurring upheavals make me stronger. Make my submission stronger. I am continually renewing the covenant. My submission, my devotion, my obedience, my service - none of this is taken for granted.

I suffer.
I struggle.
And when I kneel,
when I serve,
I yield with a clear mind
and a focused will.

Meanwhile, the sun returned.
And stayed out for days.
Where there is sun, there is hope.

There is also a scab on my left butt cheek from where the fiend bit me last week. We both hope it will leave a scar.

Cognitive dissonance and BDSM

It took four and a half days. Finally, someone was brave enough to leave the comment I had been expecting from the moment I finished writing the post I called Ouch. Screwed up again.

This morning, goodgirl wrote:

Hello
For reasons I can not even explain nor understand myself your last sentence, "a man has the right to beat his slave" prickled me to my very core. To each his/her own; freedom of speech and choice I believe but reading those words felt offensive and is just one of the many reasons why I feel conflict with the exchange of Dominance/submission; Sadism/masochism; Master/slave.

You appear very happy in your relationship and that is truly all that matters for you and the exchange you have.

For me though, this entry just fills me with sadness. 

The full quote, the last two lines of my post, is this:

Whether for punishment or pleasure,
a man has the right to beat his slave.

Here, an admission.
I felt extremely uncomfortable as I wrote it.
And I left it in as a challenge.
A challenge as much to myself as to my readers.

Because that is a horrible thing to say.
As a concept, as a tenet, it is absolutely inexcusable.
And yet.
I thought it.
I felt it.
At that time.
In that context.
As I wrote.
But if I let myself truly think about it, my stomach clenches.

So I tried not to think about it.

An exquisite example of cognitive dissonance.

As I write about it now, I'm suddenly reminded of something very different. Or maybe not so different as a psychological experience.

I was raised an atheist. A third-generation left-wing Jewish atheist. While my parents gave us a strong sense of Jewish identity, they were very clear on the non-existence of God. Religion was something that distracted people from improving the lot of the masses and making the world a better place. (Knowing very little about Judaism, they didn't know that tikkun olam, healing the world, is precisely the job we were given, but that's another discussion entirely.)

Eventually, I was drawn - felt compelled - to learn more about the religion of my ancestors. I talked with a rabbi, I read, I went to services, I found things I could relate to. But largely I preferred services that were mostly in Hebrew. Despite the fact that I didn't know what I was saying.

In fact - precisely because I wouldn't know what I was saying.

Because otherwise the highly rational part of me would push past the part that found meaning and fulfillment in ritual, the part that sensed the existence of something else, and while poking at my stomach would say: "How can you say this stuff?!?"

I rarely ascribe things to "God." Notice that above, when I spoke of tikkun olam, I didn't say it was the job that God gave us. That makes me extremely uncomfortable. And yet, I really have, on a few widely disparate occasions, become disconcertingly aware of something else.

I do not like talking about those occasions.
They make me extremely uncomfortable.
And yet they were very real.

Cognitive dissonance makes us very uncomfortable.

There is another psychological state that walks hand-in-hand with cognitive dissonance. And that is suspension of disbelief. A very deliberate suspension of disbelief.

Yes, I am very happy in my relationship. But I am admittedly uncomfortable enough about a few of its aspects that I don't reveal it to friends who are not part of this world. They would worry about me. And really, rationally, how could I blame them? Aside from everything else, I should be out looking for someone who will commit to looking after me as I grow older. Who could take care of me, financially and otherwise. Instead I have made a commitment to a man who... well, you know. Or some of it at least. You've read it here.

In order to write what I do, not to mention do what I do, I push away my thoughts of real slavery. Of real abuse, sexual and otherwise. Of forced prostitution, of children who are sold, of children whose real daddies do things to them that no child should have to endure. Things that no daddy should even think of doing. These are real horrors in the world - realities we should not close our eyes to, realities we should not close our minds to, realities we must acknowledge even as we do things that some of us, at least - perhaps precisely because our awareness is so keen - feel we must keep from those who care about us.

So I write from another place.
That place from which I can say
a man has the right to beat his slave.
For pleasure or punishment.

But there was no way I could go deeply enough into that place to enable me to write that line without cognitive dissonance standing on my shoulder, like an angel of good intent, whispering into my ear the true horror of the words I left for you to read.

So thank you, goodgirl, for being honest enough to admit what you felt.
Because if we didn't have those feelings,
at least sometimes,
we would have to seriously question our own humanity.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

A reassurance, for my new readers and for those who may have forgotten.  None of us, in any relationship, can truly say that our safety is assured, whether physical or emotional. The old hit-by-a-bus possibility. But I can say this. This man I write about - this sadist - is aware of the potential dangers and works very hard to protect me. And it is that level of consciousness that feels like the greatest protection of all.

The dance of pain

Holiday weekends confuse me. Even though I'm not working, I have an inner sense of the pattern of the week that's almost physical. It's certainly visual. A holiday throws things off. I'm not sure where I'm standing.

What I do know is that tomorrow is Tuesday. And despite an impending change in my Master's schedule, Tuesday for now is still the day I serve him lunch and my mouth and my nipples - and my pale, round belly like a somewhat-smaller-than-before mound of rising yeast dough. And all the other parts of me he owns and enjoys and uses and fucks and hurts.

Tomorrow, Tuesday, he will be hurting me.
Or so it appears.

I have my instructions.
Special preparations.

Being currently minus a renter as well as minus a job, I have reclaimed the dungeon bedroom.

Place the flogger and the cane in the basement bedroom.
The flogger on the bed.
The cane in the closet.

The flogger is so beautiful.
I love my flogger.

Even more than the first one, which broke apart while he whipped me. But he'd decided that one was too hard for me to take, anyway. The ends of the cords were knotted. This one is gentler, plus 2 shades of blue and a sweet, soft brown. He can enjoy whipping me very hard and it doesn't hurt too much.

The cane, as I've said before, is not a standard cane.
It's a long strip of wood, ragged on one end.
A nasty thing.
He has to tap it against my butt very light to keep it from hurting like hell.
It usually hurts like hell.

He was thinking about hurting me this weekend.
He was obsessing about hurting me.

But you know? I'm not worried. Because I know he wants to hurt me. Needs to hurt me. I think one reason why our night in the hotel was such a shock was because that wasn't what either of us expected it to be. I was to be calm, peaceful, focused on pleasing him, focused on serving him. Our times together always end up intense because that's the way we are - although he does like to blame it all on me. But the night had been defined as calm.

Last year he beat my butt with the back of my hairbrush, but that didn't cause an upheaval because I knew I had screwed up a small but crucial task and expected to be punished. So he beat me and it hurt a lot but then it was over and I was cleansed of my guilt and then we went on and it was a beautiful night.

Tomorrow he needs to hurt me.
Because.
Because he needs to.

Maybe that's one of the differences between a sadist and someone who is merely sadistic. At times, my Master needs to hurt me. And then he will, while restraining himself as much as possible from hurting me more than I can bear.

He takes care of me.
He protects me.
Even as he is teaching me to embrace the pain.
To connect it with pleasure.
To want it.
To beg for it.

What I really want is to please him.
To serve him and to please him.

[dead air]

I just had to shake my head. I wrote those two preceding sentences and fell into an undefined reverie that was all feeling... all intimacy... that magical borderless union between the sadist and his prey...

He likes to use that word.
Prey.
And to some extent it is quite accurate.
But there is something else.
Something more.
When the victim is willing and loving and giving.
It's a dance.
A dark dance.
A sensuous dance.
A dangerous dance,
but sweet and intoxicating.

The sadist leads.
And when I'm in his arms
and he bends me back almost to the ground,
my nipples sparkling towards the sky,
he presses his mouth to my naked throat
and sinks his teeth into my neck.

Relationships are like cocksucking - Part 1 of 2

Really!
I'm not trying to be funny.
Well, OK.
I am trying to be funny.
But not merely funny.

A relationship is like sucking cock.
No one size fits all,
be it your parents' relationship
or BDSM
or teenagers just finding their way.
We can read books,
talk to our friends,
pore over advice columns,
but in the end
all we have
is us.

All you have is that cock in your mouth which could be much too long or unusually short or so fat you could choke on it or so thin it could wriggle down your throat like a worm. You can study all the basic techniques but in the end it's what he likes combined with what you can do and the fantasies you can trigger and your own sparks of creativity.

My Master trained me very carefully before he allowed me to start sucking. Clear descriptions of what he likes, suggested exercises to practice by myself, very direct and directive feedback on my performance - and for his pains, he has the services of one of the best damn cocksuckers in the world.

For him.
And his other subs can probably say pretty much the same thing.

But only for him.

I was good before we met. Before the training started. I could give you testimonials. Now I'm even better. But I would never claim that any other cock would experience the same level of satisfaction as his does. Especially not the first time round. When he brings his friends to fuck me, to use me, which is definitely under discussion, I will work very hard to please them as much as I please him. But I'll have to do a lot of experimenting. Improvising. Reading the signs. Listening to their grunts.

Learning to suck cock is not like studying an arithmetic textbook.
There is no one right answer
and there is no one right way to get there.
Same thing with relationships.
All relationships.

Which brings us back to BDSM.
And what my long-time readers are probably sick of hearing me say.
D/s
M/s
S & M

It's pure BS if you think you can say
a Master is like this,
a sub must do that,
a slave is one who,
a Dom has to be.

A D/s relationship (for example) is still just a relationship.
What matters is how the parties see it.
What matters is what works for you.

There.
Got that out of the way.

There were some lengthy comments in response to yesterday's post: My Master's mea culpa. I really like lengthy comments. I like the thought that goes into them, and I like that people care enough to take the time to write that much. I'm very grateful for everything that was said.

But I also know that most people don't read the comments. And I only ended up replying to the first one. So 1) if you follow the link from the title in the previous paragraph, you'll get the post with all the comments in full; and 2) here are excerpts from each one, with some measure of response from me. I do hope that the conversation continues! I don't claim to be perfect. I don't claim to know all. I certainly don't claim to know what's right for the rest of you. But I have been serving the sadist for just 2 months shy of 3 years, and while obviously neither of us has all the answers I do think I know a whole lot about who and what we are.

Still, I can always use some help. And writing and discussing here, as well as some private conversations, have been a great help in getting me through the last few days back to feeling grounded again. And I do feel grounded again. I see it in perspective. I am not walking away. What we have is too good, and we have worked too hard for it. We'll get through this and keep on working to build on what we have.

And now, the comments.

Sophia Anne is a sub and a relative newcomer to this space. This was her first comment, and I really appreciate her speaking up. She started off with "perhaps I have no business posting this comment when I don't know your full story." Everyone is free to comment, but it's true that some sorts of comments are more appropriate when you know more about the people involved. She warned me abut the danger of abuse, which is a good and fair warning. What I was aware of at the time was exactly that. It didn't feel like sadistic behaviour that was too much for me to deal with. It felt like irrational, drunken abuse. And that scared me. But note that this was the first time in nearly 3 years that I have felt like that.

She then went on:

Safe and loving doms channel their sadism into ways that will not cause serious harm and in ways that are also beneficial to the sub, i.e. meeting her masochistic and emotional needs without going too far. In other words, they practice self-control.

As I said in my direct reply, the sadist, my sadist, has never claimed to be safe. In fact, he has warned me again and again that he is not safe. This has always been a very serious warning, and is testament to the way he treasures me. [I'm deliberately not using the word "loving." Not every dom(me) loves his or her sub, but they can still be caring and responsible.] The fiend is not just sadistic. He is a sadist. A real one. I do know this. He has never claimed otherwise. He cannot always completely control himself but continues to work very hard to protect me. You cannot imagine what this entails. It's far more serious than my swearing off ice cream because I'm on the edge of being diabetic. And damn, it's summer and I really want some ice cream!

Also, while he does meet my needs far more than any other, safer person I've ever been involved with, including my 2 ex-husbands even when things were good [were things ever really good with #2?], the ultimate focus of the relationship is to serve his needs. Period. Luckily for me, building up my self-respect and self-image, teaching me that I am beautiful, and encouraging my creativity all serve his own needs. I have grown and healed in very real ways in his ownership. I am very, very fortunate. These were my real needs. To be given structure. To be directed. To be appreciated. I am not in fact a masochist, although he has been teaching me about pain, and the beautiful intimacy that comes from the shared experience of causing pain and suffering it.

I am not trying to "have my masochistic needs met." If that's all I wanted then yes, there are plenty of people who would oblige me. Who would "play with me." But we do not play. This is not a game. It is a serious, exquisite connection with a man who has been training and guiding and using submissives and slaves for decades. Longer than some of my readers have been alive. It does feel as if your comment was meant largely as a general statement. But it's a good idea to do a little research into a specific circumstance before implying that someone has not earned the right to call himself Master. The ones I really worry about are the ones who demand you call them that right away, long before the relationship warrants it. I also worry about one-size-fits-all doms, who expect every "sub" and "slave" to serve them in the same way, who have the same expectations of each person in their care, without bothering to learn what it is they have acquired and then respond to the unique capabilities and characteristics of their property. You shouldn't try to make a Mini Cooper perform like a Jaguar.

But even the best driver occasionally goes too fast.
And cracks up the car.
Even a treasured car.
So you check yourself and the vehicle for damages,
berate yourself,
patch both of you up,
and learn from your mistakes.

I'm going to jump over the next couple of readers and slip ahead to Master Roger. He is Sophia Anne's master and can be found writing on the same blog.

He wrote:

This may or may not help but I suggest you improve your acting skills. Try reading "An Actor Prepares" by Stanislavsky.

You say that inflicting pain gives your Master pleasure, but what aspect is it that pleases him the most?

Is it doing actual physical damage to you or is it hearing you scream and cry and beg?

If it is the latter I believe you could save your skin and increase your Master's pleasure by becoming more verbal and expressive when taking his punishment.

Don't wait to be in extreme pain before you protest. Pretend to be in more pain than you actually are.
Yes, you are acting, but the purpose of your performance is to give your Master the experience he seeks without more harm than necessary to yourself.

Actually, having been trained in the theatre, I have read Stanislavsky and studied his techniques. As far back as high school, which was a long time ago.

As for the suggestion that I fake my suffering, I'll let reader jcn have the first word, as she put it so eloquently:

Master Roger suggests feigning pain, but all that I understand of the fiend, all that is written about him here, screams that he would have an unholy fit if he thought you were FAKING shit! And despite the fact that I'm a pain slut, I wouldn't want to be around the sadist when he was having a fit!

My Master always knows when I am lying.
Or not even full out lying.
I don't lie.
But fooling myself.
Thinking I understand something, or feel it, when I don't yet.
He is a true Master of what he does.
He has an uncanny ability to read people.
So he would know if I were acting.
And there's no way he would accept it.

However, Master Roger is right about his wanting to know that he is hurting me. But he wants the truth of it. Because - again - we're not playing. It's not just ooh, lets have some hot S&M sex and I'll whack at your butt and it'll make me hard and I'll cum with a bang.

It's the intimacy of it.
What flows between the sadist and his victim.
And sometimes, all it takes is the smallest thing.
He takes my nipple between two fingers
as I give him my eyes
and he sees what happens in those eyes
as he squeezes
just enough
to cause the merest amount of pain.
It doesn't take much with me.
I'm not a masochist.
And he sees the change in my eyes.
Something flows between our eyes.
We both open
and I give him everything and more
and he takes everything and more
but oh...
I get so much, too.

Never has a cock fucking a pussy achieved that level of intimacy.
Never.

You can't get that if you're acting.

This is way too long for one post, so I will finish tomorrow. And I do owe you guys a sex toy review! But here is one more quote from Master Roger:

Your role as a slave is to please your Master. Being a good actress is merely on [sic] more skill a good slave should have to facilitate pleasing her Master.

This gets back to my opening statement and my constant insistence that there is no official policy as to what defines any sort of BDSM - or any - relationship. No one has the authority to say this is what a sub or slave is or is supposed to do.

My role as a slave is what my Master says it is.
The skills *I* need as his slave are what he demands of me.
It's a question of who I am,
what my special talents are,
what desires I raise in him,
and what is between us.
What our unique relationship is.

I would be out of his life pretty fast if he thought I was acting.
Our relationship is based on honesty.

I'm sorry if it sounded as if I was picking on either of you, but the areas you both hit are things I feel pretty fiercely about. For my relationship. With my Master. On top of my general aversion to the idea of BDSM having set rules and definitions. As I said to Sophia Anne, there is no kinky Bureau of Standards to say how we may use certain terms and how we must conduct our relationships.

All relationships are hard.
Everyone fucks up sooner or later.

The emotional pain I suffered at the hands of my second husband without his ever striking me was far worse, and far more destructive, than anything my truly loved Master has ever done to me. And ex-hubby #2 never apologized. He didn't care at all. He barely noticed me.

Who was the real self-centered sadist?

I'll address the rest of the comments tomorrow - and please add new ones!

Meanwhile, please forgive this last bit of self-indulgence.

Yet each man kills the thing he loves
By each let this be heard,
Some do it with a bitter look,
Some with a flattering word,
The coward does it with a kiss,
The brave man with a sword!

My Master's mea culpa

There are things I haven't said about our long night together. There are always things I leave out, of course. But this I left out deliberately. Because I wasn't ready to talk about it yet.

I'm still not ready to talk about it.
But it comes down to this.
He is always fighting his desire to hurt me.
It's a constant struggle.

He didn't do very well on Saturday night.
He scared me.
And other things.

I've been struggling with it. And as the visible bruises have slowly healed, the inner ones have... well, not quite healed, but they were no longer hurting all the time.

And then tonight, he spoke directly to what happened for the first time. Because he's afraid for my safety.

We go through this periodically.
We're not just talking someone who has fun with Dick & Jane & spanking.
My Master is a full-fledged sadist.
He has a compulsion to cause pain.
And he has a special compulsion to hurt me.

Even as he wants to protect me from harm.

So every so often he advises me to get out while I can.

I'm a little more inclined this time to give his advice serious consideration. Except I just can't. I can't walk away. I think of safety measures we can initiate, circumstances under which we should not be together. I think of what we are like together, what we do for each other, what he has done for me.

I think of how empty my life would be without him.

Sure, he has manipulated me.

I don't need his admission to know that.

But I can also feel what is real.

So I can't give up trying.

Trying to find a way to continue.

To keep me from being seriously hurt.

To keep him from being too frustrated.

To keep us from giving up something very special.

He gave me a gift, though.

He gave me a gift tonight.

He admitted that things got out of control Saturday night.

And he took full responsibility.

Something he very rarely does.

In fact, I'm not sure he has ever said it was all his fault.

Of course, my Master is very good at what he does.

His mea culpa could just be another attempt at manipulation.

If so

[she sighs helplessly]

he succeeded once again.

PS - there's a bit of a lively discussion going on in the Comments. Do check it out - and join in!

Working for the Beast

I'm writing sadistic porn for the Beast. He likes me, it seems, or perhaps merely enjoys my suffering. So I have been assigned to serve his literary appetites, with the chance that he will put in a good word for me with the sadist.

The story I just sent him was so dark that I almost vomited as I proofread.
Which is no surprise, really.
I've been nauseous most of the day.

We've talked a lot today, the sadist and I
"Talked."
The modern way.
E-mails, texts, long conversations via IM.

He went to see his slave this morning.
It could have been me.
He had the time and it could have been me.
He even thought of that, of visiting me.
He pictured me.
The way I greet him,
standing naked behind the open door
so as not to embarrass the neighbors.
The way I stand against the dungeon wall,
the way I kneel before his chair.
And then...

I can't even describe the horrible, horror movie fantasy that came unbidden into his mind and left him afraid to look at my face. Afraid to look into my eyes. Because last Tuesday, when he looked into my eyes, the way he always looks into my eyes, he didn't find what was usually there. And in some ways I think that hurt him more than anything.

So he didn't come to see me.
He went to see his masochistic slave.
The slave survived - I'm assured he's all right -
and the sadist was somewhat cleansed.

He did a lot of thinking on the drive home.

We took a break, then he e-mailed me that he was sending me 4 more e-mails, which I should read without responding. He would then sign on to IM in 5 minutes. Except it must have been about 10 minutes, because I had time to read the e-mails and then listen to an assigned gut-wrenching song by his favorite singer-songwriter.

One of the e-mails told about the hour he had accidentally spent with the solider Friday night. Back at the bar. They didn't spend the whole time speaking of me. But obviously they did. Speak about me. What a concept.

Two of the e-mails referred to the possibility of never seeing me again.

I felt as if I'd been punched in my pale white belly. Something the sadist in fact likes to do. But he holds himself back with me.

Excuse me.
He has held himself back with me.
No assumptions can be made about the future.

And then we talked.
Instant messaging.
Must have gone on for hours.
So many ups and downs.
So many tears.
But in the end...

He is working on a new plan.
Very cautiously,
very vaguely,
he is working on a new plan.
There are no guarantees.
And so far there are only 2 points.

1. It will take time.

2. Since the stories I write specifically for the beast seem to win myself some support from him, the sadist thinks it would be a good idea to continue that activity. Except for scaring myself with how extreme and dark my imagination can be, I'm glad to be doing it. I hadn't written much in the way of fiction for a long time. And at least this way I feel that I'm doing something when really there is nothing I can do.

The sadist must heal.
He must recover.

The question that came up is whether he will recover from me, or merely from the wound that was inflicted by an arrow coming from my direction. At least, today, he mentioned the possibility that he might be able to consider (even if not believe) the idea that I didn't fire it deliberately. A small step, for sure, not to be given more weight than it deserves, but a generous step nevertheless.

So I wrote him (or, rather, the Beast) a story that makes me want to vomit.
I wrote a poem, too, though it's not quite finished.
And I'm not sure I should send it.
Perhaps I'll post it here instead.

Before I go off to watch one of his all-time favorite movies and then report my reaction, I want to add one caution about what I have been and will be writing about all this and everything else.

Especially about all this.

Be careful about what you assume about him and his reactions and feelings and psychology. What you read is my interpretation. It is not objective. It is filtered through my own weaknesses and emotions and neuroses and faulty memory. In some ways, for him, for any of us, objective truth is irrelevant. All that matters is how we experience the world. That is our reality. His experience of what I did and what I said and what was not in my eyes is his reality. What happens hereafter must proceed from there.

And my eyes?
I do not dispute that something he usually finds was absent from my eyes.

This I cannot dispute.
And therein lies my grief.

Greetings from the Ice Queen

Please forgive the recent silence. Your devoted correspondent was carried off to a land where all was cold and dark.

51 hours without power.

It finally came back this evening, and the indoor temperature rose 10 degrees F in an hour and a half. All the way up to 57 degrees F.

I had just finished packing up a small bag and was on my way to spend the night with friends who had their power restored around 4:15 early Friday morning. Other friends are camping out there with their cat. Another friend invited those who needed to come for a hot shower, food, and company. I gratefully accepted. It wasn't so much a shower as being able to wash my hair and dry it! And it felt so good to be taken care of...

The cats seemed almost confused when the lights came back on, while I felt less guilty about contemplating leaving them to freeze alone. In the end, I decided to sleep at home.

Meanwhile, the storm which precipitated the power outage caused my rendez-vous with Evan to be postponed. Maybe Sunday afternoon. We'll see...

In the world scheme of things - and even with what some of you are dealing with - this wasn't all that serious. But it was damn uncomfortable.

Now think of the people who are sleeping on the street.

I'm trying to avoid that.
But the thoughts intrude.
And make me feel guilty.

Good night, all.
Stay warm.

Subdued

- Sometime this weekend you will post on your blog the fact that you have displeased me
- at a very inopportune time
- causing me yet another rewrite of your plan (which I am beginning to believe holds me slave more than you)
- and invest yet more time I DON'T FUCKING HAVE

I am including this verbatim texted command from the sadist not to indicate that I am writing this post under protest, but to make it clear how angry and definite he was. For I did, in fact, displease him. More than once. Not deliberately. I would never aim to rile him. My body has met his fury before, and I suspect will meet it again when he decides I am re-trained enough to be ready for a visit.

So I am not writing under protest. In fact, I must learn not to protest. Not to argue. Not to amplify. Not to give him more than he wants. I must learn simple obedience. You would think that after 2 years I would have fully absorbed that lesson. But I lost my way.

There has been, as he terms it, a sunderance. We both felt it. He said it wasn't a question of one of us or the other, but of what lay between us. And in that I think he is most surely right. The connection between us weakened, and the effect that had on each of us made it weaker still until I became conscious of - and distressed by - what he had known for quite some time.

I have already written of his visit a week ago. Of how he had me meet him at the door with the cane, knowing that the order would catapult me into that place from which I had wandered without knowing the way back. I no longer felt his constant presence. I was no longer living every moment in some version of my own particular subspace - that magical other world in which everything was seen and felt through the lens he provided me. I was worried. I had angered him with messages asking if I had done something wrong. It wasn't the lack of messages. There have been times when I've received barely 2 words from him for days but I haven't been distressed because I felt him always with me. I lived in the space he created for me. But I hadn't been feeling that... and I think that led to my not taking his standing orders as seriously. To my not obeying as precisely. And to my not immediately confessing that I had gone to bed 2 minutes after curfew - even though I know that the details of the order are crucial. Being able to obey precisely. Even if the order seems arbitrary.

It is all about obedience.
About details.
About sacrificing myself to his will.

I do know that.
But it wasn't registering.
I had forgotten.
I had lost my way.

I don't know where it began, whether with him or with me or on both sides as a reaction to one thing or another. But I think he felt a lack of commitment on my part - which he interpreted as a lack of commitment to him and to my submission and to the relationship, whereas I was, it is true, becoming lazy and sloppy about obeying perfectly rituals (such as bedtime and scheduling) which I found to be a chore. I think I felt less of his constant presence, because of his disconnect from me, which made me feel less connected and made me lose the sense of urgency about obeying to the last precise detail. Again, I think it was a chain reaction for which I cannot pinpoint a beginning cause. But it happened. It continued. And then this week, because I was in a very bad mood due to this and that and the other thing, it all came out in the open.

I'm not going into the details of why I was so grumpy.
They are irrelevant.
They are irrelevant to my need to obey.
They are irrelevant to my need to think only of what will please him.
They are irrelevant to my need to accept.
To not argue.
To not show how clever I am.

I have been grief stricken. Devastated. Weeping from deep within what I thought was my submissive soul but which obviously had not completely gotten the message. I took these for granted. I took our connection for granted. He does spoil me. He opens up to me on rare and precious occasions and reveals his weaknesses, his pain, his doubts. As we e-mailed back and forth on Friday, he spoke of damage to the mystical aspect of our relationship (while reassuring me that I was too good a cocksucker for him to discard me at the moment.) I'd never thought of it that way - as mystical - but I knew there was something special.

At least he hasn't given up on me. Although I wouldn't blame him if he did. His words made me see clearly so many things. I do always feel the need to add more. To show how clever I am. To rationalize and intellectualize and protest and argue and insist on seeing things my way and that I have sound reasons for my viewpoint whereas he (or anyone else, for that matter) just hasn't taken everything into account or thought it all through in the most sensible and/or creative way. I can be absolutely unbearable.

The most important point of all that is that it doesn't matter if objectively he is right and I am wrong. This relationship is not a democracy. It is not an equal partnership. He is God and I am dust and if he gives a little puff I must let it blow me in the direction he desires. That and nothing more and nothing less.

We e-mailed and texted last night as well as during the day. He is now devoting an excessive and unavailable amount of time to me. Not to mention rewriting the plan. When you remember that he has other other submissives to both direct and enjoy, plus an overly busy life beyond his collection, you can appreciate how justifiably irked he is. Plus I have some suspicions as to the events which he has had to postpone, causing disappointment to people beyond the two of us.

So he has said we will try to rebuild. Slowly. I am back to calling him Sir, which seemed more appropriate at this point even before he required it. This morning was spent getting me to limit myself to three phrases:

Yes, Sir.
No, Sir.
I'm sorry, Sir.

Given how loquacious I am, you can imagine the struggle. But it was good for me. I got the point. And more than that, I felt pushed back down to living at his feet.

Already, on Friday night, he quickly brought me back to what we both refer to as that place. I had lost my way, and was horribly scared and distressed, but he quickly sent me back there. He always knows exactly what to do and say. I was there in an instant and, more important, felt the connection again.

However, as he said, that was the easy part. It will take much more than that for him to feel the same way as he did before.

I do hope he can again feel the same way.

So there we are. I am chastened and subdued and cautious and trying better than my best to be perfectly obedient. I am sitting down in the dungeon, laptop toasting my bare thighs - because he ordered me to spend the evening naked as much as was possible. Ideally, he said:

- you should actually be naked, as much as possible, when involved in any process which concerns me, including thinking
- which I have probably only told you about 1000 times

Which, I had to admit, I didn't remember his ever having told me at all.

So I am naked now. Which makes me feel very vulnerable. Not to mention a little chilly. Which of course makes my damn nipples extra hard and protuberant.

Back to the beginning again.

I did displease him.
And he had the right to be displeased.
And I feel awful at taking for granted everything he has done for me.
All the time he has spent on me.
All the effort he has put into training me and molding me.
And all the joy he has given me...

You may notice that I have added a small statement to the furnishings of the blog, right below my profile. It reads as follows:

Give him what he wants
and NOT
what he doesn't want.

That seems a more than reasonable motto for a submissive poet pet to live by.

Unforgivables

"There are some things we don't have to forgive," she said.

My heart paused and gasped.
My heart lifted. I felt as if
granted a reprieve from
a sisyphean task that I
never could complete.

It was a writer's workshop
cum therapy group. Grief
and healing and psalms.
And with one sentence,
she forgave me for the
forgiveness that I
cannot
give.

"Oh." I said.
"Like Hitler," I said.
"We're not expected
to forgive Hitler."
"Exactly," she said.
Not that the crimes of
ex-hubby #2 compare to
the Holocaust.
But the point
was clear. I'm in
the clear. I can
stop
beating myself up.
I'll leave that job
to the sadist.
He'll enjoy it.

Punishment Fit for a Slave

this is fiction.
i was driven to write it
in lieu of the real thing.
please forgive me, master.
please forgive me, J---.
- - - - - - -

When she picked him up at the bus station, he didn’t say a word.

She had been forewarned. Everything had been explained ahead of time. He hadn’t let her hear his voice for the past three days, but he had laid it all out in a clear, cold e-mail.

“You disobeyed my order. You deliberately disobeyed me. This was more than a fit of naughtiness. Your transgression was severe, and you will be punished accordingly. Not as a pet. Not as a submissive. But as a slave. You must be reminded that in the end you are nothing but a slave. “

She cried as she read his words, but couldn’t argue. In her own eyes, her behaviour was unforgivable.. She would welcome whatever punishment he chose to mete out in hopes of being washed clean of her sin.

She stayed in the car, saving them both from a public display of the silent greeting, the sad space between their bodies. Besides, she was dressed per his precise specification. The slave shirt, a man’s white dress shirt, held closed by nothing but the three bottom buttons. No underwear. He would have kept her barefoot, but for safety’s sake while driving had allowed sandals. But no socks.

Around her neck was the cold metal choke chain.

The day was chilly for spring. Despite her low spirits, her nipples had hardened from the cold. He loved those nipples He had to work hard to control the smile that threatened to break the mood. She did need to be punished severely. It would be cathartic for both of them. And then they could move on.

She drove him silently home, her eyes as downcast as they could be considering her need to look at the road. She still couldn’t bear to look at him when she got out of the car. She waited as he took his bag out of the back, and then walked silently by his side up the steps. At the top, she reached forward to insert the key in the lock, but he put his hand over hers and unlocked the door himself. A small gesture, but clear. He was home and in charge. He was indeed the master of the house.

It was the first time he had touched her since he arrived, and the only gentle touch she would feel for hours to come.

He nodded sternly toward his bag, and she took it into the bedroom. Then she went to relieve herself. While she could.

She returned to the living room and stood, her eyes focused on the space between her now bare feet.

“Take off your shirt, slave. Now.”

Her eyes betrayed a hint of protest. The blinds were open. But she obeyed without argument. She opened the three buttons, shrugged her shoulders, and let the shirt slide down her arms to the floor.

Inwardly, he nodded. She had passed the first test.

“Now, slave. Go down to the dungeon, Kneel before my chair. And wait.”

She did as she was told.

The so-called dungeon, aka the family room, was carpeted, but the position was stll hard on her knees. She wasn’t at all flexible as a slave should be. But she posed as he had commanded, with hands behind her, shoulders back, breasts proffered, legs spread as wide as she could manage. Mortified, she realized that her cunt was swelling and seeping. She knew there would be nothing intentionally erotic about what was going to happen to her, she knew he would hurt her in ways he never had before, but still… she allowed herself a small rueful smile. Perhaps after the beating she was in for, she would be cured of being a pain slut. But she doubted it.

He made her hold the position for a long time. He put some water up to boil, stretched his legs from the four-hour trip, petted the cats, made himself some tea and a sandwich, ate while looking at the newspaper, and used the bathroom. He knew she hated being banished to the basement. It was all part of the punishment.

Finally, with a mixture of relief and fear bordering on terror, she heard him coming down the steps. Now it would truly begin. They had the house to themselves for the long weekend. She had no idea how much time he had allotted to her punishment.

It began with the castigation. Cold and factual. There was no need to remind her of what she had done – she would never forget how she had betrayed his trust with her disobedience. It wasn’t the action itself that was so serious. She hadn’t betrayed him with another man. Or woman, for that matter. But she had betrayed the spirit of their relationship. He gave the orders. He knew what was best for her. She was to obey. Period. But he wanted her to hear it again, from his own lips. She needed to suffer in order to be cleansed, and he had to flog her soul as well as her body.

She wept at his words. She wept at her foolishness. She wept at the hard note in his voice. And most of all, she wept at knowing that she had disappointed him. The tears flowed from her eyes, as did the snot from her nose. He wanted to go to her, to wipe her eyes as well as her nose. But he knew he had to play the whole thing out, so instead tossed her the box of tissues.

“Clean yourself up, slave.”

She blotted her eyes and blew her nose, knowing there would be a lot more tears and snot to come. She made a little pile of the wet tissues, and again brought her hands behind her, each clutching the opposite arm just below the elbow.

Along with instructions for picking him up at the bus station, he had sent a list of items she was to gather and array. She was to prepare the implements of her own torture. He surveyed the items arranged neatly on the large, sturdy coffee table. It was time for the next act.

Even a grad student needs study breaks. He had rested his mind from working on his dissertation by practicing his knots, viewing instructional videos, and studying drawings of Japanese bondage. The latter gave him fierce erections and violent dreams, but also (and this was the point) gave him ideas for how he would torture her. For he wanted to do more than just beat her. He wanted to make her feel threatened and helpless and manipulated. He wanted to remind her that he did indeed own her, that she was his to command AND to abuse, and that she should keep this in mind the next time he issued an order.

He knew there was no chance she would ever again forget.

Gathering up the collection of hemp ropes, he strode over to where she knelt. It had been a while since their last bondage scene, but the practice paid off. He pulled everything a little tighter this time, the ropes around her breasts, around her arms, around her wrists as he bound them behind her. The knots he created for her clit and cunt and anus were large, intrusive, and painful. Again, he found himself smiling inwardly as he positioned the knots, for despite the fear and despair in her eyes she was open and slippery. He longed to plunge his fingers into her and his cock jerked upwards, but he steeled himself against his own lust and concentrated on his task. He was trying a new position, aiming to increase her feeling of vulnerability. He proceded to bind her right ankle to her thigh and torso. Then, taking up another piece of hemp, he wound it around her left ankle and, reaching up, attached it to the hook he had instructed her to screw into the upright wooden beam behind them.

He surveyed his creation. She was not only immobilized. She was open to attack on her most delicate parts.

Normally, the next step would have been a spanking. But nothing was normal about what was to come. This was no pretend punishment for manufactured offenses. Her transgression was real and severe, and the punishment would be the same. The intimacy of the touch of his hand would mitigate the mental effect. So for now it was to be implements only.

Still, he wasn’t that cruel as to beat her without some sort of warm up. He stood up, removed his belt, folded it in half, and raised his hand.

“Now, slave. For you are but a slave. And you must learn what happens to slaves who disobey.”

She flinched inside even before feeling the first blow from his belt. She flinched, and then cried out, but in truth she welcomed the pain. She needed this. She needed this to cleanse her of the guilt and the regret. She needed this to reassure her that he wouldn’t send her away. However cruelly he treated her, this ritual was his statement that she was worth taking the time to scold and to punish and to reduce to a screaming, sobbing, submissive mess. Because after all that came forgiveness.

He held back as he beat her. He held back because this was but a warm up, and because he was starting with the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs. He held back because he was aiming carefully. He would eventually beat her cunt, but he wanted it to be intentional. Once, in play, he had accidentally brought the belt down hard on her cunt and her scream still rang in his soul. He hadn’t meant to hurt her that badly. This time, he did. When he was ready.

The belt came down on her flesh 50 times. Her usually pale skin was flushed and glowing. She had tried not to wriggle, had tried not to scream, had tried to show that she knew she deserved this. But she was never all that good at controlling herself.

He walked back over to the table. The way she was positioned, she could see him put down the folded strip of leather and take up the next item on the program. Something new.

She waged a constant battle in the back yard, defending it from invasion and ultimate surrender to a neighbor’s army of bamboo. The day before his arrival, she had cut an armload of three-foot lengths from the tops of the younger plants and stripped them of their leaves, creating a thick handful of flexible switches. She had tied the base together with string, and today it lay on the table with the more familiar toys. Or what used to be thought of as toys.

He tried it out, swishing it through the air, getting a feel for the weight and resistance. He brought it down a couple of times on his denim-shielded leg and estimated the effect it would have on her bare parts. Then he returned to standing over her.

She expected him to continue the assault on her cunt. But he wanted to keep her off balance. He brought the bundle down on her breasts.

He didn’t hurt her all that hard. He did own her after all, not to mention the feelings he had for her, and didn’t want to do any permanent damage. But he had never beat her tits before, and he achieved the desired effect even without great force.

“When a slave is being punished, nothing is safe. Do you understand that? Slave?!”

He had such power over her when he addressed her that way. “Slave!”

“Yes, master. I understand, sir.” Her words were soft and tearful but definite and submissive.

He flogged each tit 10 times.

“Whose breasts are these, slave?”

“They are your breasts, master.”

“Yes. They are my breasts. And whose nipples are these? Slave.”

It always felt worse when he set that word apart. Slave. Worse. But better. It sent her down into subspace. He knew what he was doing. The soft part of him wanted to spare her from the worst of the pain. She would get the message clearly enough. This was psychological torture as much as physical affliction. Just knowing what he was doing to her would upset her well enough.

“They are YOUR nipples, master.”

“That’s right, slave. You are my slave and these are my nipples. You are never to forget that. Your body and your will, they all belong to me. And you will never again forget it. Will you? Slave.”

“No, master. I promise. I will never forget that ever again.”

He could hear the change in her voice. She was going down.

Acting quickly, he threw down the bundle of switches and took up the new item he had brought with him. Japanese clover clamps. He had never even subjected her nipples to clothespins, although he loved to twist them, to pinch them, to sink his nail into them. She gasped as he brutally seized each red nub and fastened a clamp on each one. Finally, he yanked on the chain. Hard.

Tears sprang to her eyes, but he didn’t wait for any further reaction. Taking up the bamboo bundle again, he slid one switch out from the rest. Again, he gave a few practice swishes through the air, before proceeding to whip her thighs.

The pain was cutting. It reminded her of the rubber band punishments he made her inflict on herself. In many ways it was worse than the cane, even though the switch wasn’t coming down as hard. He whipped her steadily, mercilessly, leaving clear red welts on the flesh already reddened by the belt.

And now he started to speak as he whipped her. Steadily and firmly, following the rhythm of the bamboo on her thighs.

“THIS is HOW a SLAVE is PUNISHED. THIS is what HAPPENS when a SLAVE disoBEYS. NEver forGET who OWNS you, SLAVE. I am the MASTER and YOU are the SLAVE.”

He tried to stay dispassionate, but anger was seeping in. Anger. And lust. He was getting hard. Very very hard. He tried to stuff it all back down, but it was a struggle.

He finally stopped whipping her and looked down at the welts he had left. At first he had aimed for clear parallel lines, though that was hard with such thin, fresh bamboo. Some of the blows had accidentally crossed each other, and then in the end he deliberately brought the switch down in the other direction, finishing up with five strokes in the same spot on each inner thigh. Where the welts crossed, and where he had concentrated the stripes, spots of blood rose to the surface. Once more, he had to control his tender feelings. He would leave the blood there to dry. He wanted her to see it. She knew he wasn’t into blood. The spots would be another reminder of how serious this was.

The whipping had brought cries of pain at each stroke, but not as loud as if he hadn’t brought her down somewhat into subspace. He had never taken her all the way down with physical pain. Fantasies of branding nearly deprived her of the ability to speak, but that was the furthest she had ever gone. He suspected she would be at least partially conscious for the rest of the punishment. Good. He wanted her to know what was happening to her.

He exchanged the switch for the belt.

“Slave. Do you remember when I accidentally hit your cunt? This time, slave, it won’t be an accident. This time I mean it. I am going to bring the belt down on your cunt. Five times, slave. Five times. It will drive the knots deeper into your cunt and harder onto your clit. This will hurt, slave. A lot. But not nearly as much as you hurt me with your disobedience. Remember that, slave. When you disobey, you betray my trust in you. It is for that more than anything else that you are being punished. Do you understand me? Slave?”

“Yes, master.” Her voice was clouded and tremulous. She was there enough to know this would hurt like hell. And again, she didn’t doubt that she deserved it.

He picked up the black and white checkerboard bandanna from the table.

“I don’t want to frighten the neighbors with your screams.”

He gagged her. He had never gagged her before. Her eyes flashed panic. He ignored it.

Once more, he stood up. He raised the belt. He aimed carefully, and brought it down hard on the knots that adorned her crotch.

He heard her scream from behind the gag.

Four more times he beat her cunt. Four more times her choked screams met his ears, When he was done, he stood there, breathing heavily. He was startled by how powerful he felt. His sadism had overcome his scruples, had pushed past the litany he had been repeating to himself that this was all a necessary punishment and nothing more. He had hurt her badly, and he reveled in her pain. He felt strong and powerful and he wanted to keep hurting her, his sadism was unleashed and he wanted to keep finding more and crueler ways to use her body. And then he wanted to force his cock down her throat and rape her. Truly rape her.

He shook his head to clear it. The fun would come later. He had a job to finish.

She was whimpering at his feet. He bent down and removed the gag. She was surprised by the gentleness in his touch. She had sensed the sadism pushing past the dispassionate desire for correction. It had simultaneously frightened and pleased her. She always felt it was good for him to let it out. And this had been an appropriate time for her to pay the price. Still, shaken and in anguish as she was, she smiled fondly at the tenderness that was creeping through.

He stroked her hair, and used a tissue to wipe her eyes and blot the drool from around her mouth.

“It’s almost over, kitten. It’s almost over. This will be the last part.”

He knew he had let it slip. He had called her “kitten.” He hadn’t meant to until it was all over. But he couldn’t help himself. He wanted it to be over, perhaps more than she did. He wanted to welcome her back. This punishment in truth was more for her than for him.

He released her ankles, and she rolled around a bit to get the blood flowing again. Which hurt. He removed the clover clamps, which let the blood back into her nipples. Which hurt. He sat her up and untied the rest of the ropes.

“Crawl for me, kitten. I want to see you crawl.”

He couldn’t go back to calling her “slave.” She started to cry. This was more painful than all the blows combined. It just reminded her how she had disappointed him.

He steeled himself. He stopped himself from saying his usual, beautiful “Don’t cry, kitten,” in that special, loving inflection.

“Crawl. NOW.”

She crawled. They both knew it was to get the blood flowing again. She crawled around the room while he removed every item from the coffee table and placed them on the futon. He let her crawl back and forth for a couple of minutes, then walked over to her and seized the end of the choke collar, forcing the metal noose tight against her throat. He pulled her back towards the coffee table. She had to scramble to keep up with him.

“Up. On the table. On your knees.”

He took a small box from the futon, another item he had brought with him. He held it in front of her while he removed a butt plug. It was her first.

“I am going to cane you now. Fifty strokes, for no reason other than that is how many I am choosing to give you. But first, two more reminders that you belong to me. Every part of you belongs to me. You belong to me and that is why you are always to obey me. ALWAYS. Do you understand?”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He slipped a condom onto the butt plug and shoved it into her cunt. He knew she was wet – the rope knots had been slippery when he removed them from her various orifices. He moved the butt plug in and out, gathering the natural lubricant.

He was gentle as he eased it into her tight little ass hole. She had never been fucked there, but had read enough to know to push out. Between them, they got the job done. A learning experience for them both.

Next came another condom and the monstrous purple dildo. She hated it. It was too big. Which was why he inserted it now in her cunt. She was stretched and stuffed and possessed.

“I am going to cane you. You deserve this. I am not going to bind you. You are going to count off the strokes and hold the position and accept this as punishment. And then that will be the end of it. Now lie down on the table.”

The wooden top was hard. It was not at all comfortable. She stretched her arms down the table legs and grasped them at their base. He tucked a pillow under her hips to raise them into position. Her legs hung down behind. She was fully alert now. No more subspace in which to take refuge.

Again, practice swishes through the air.

“Now. Loud and clear. If you lose count I’ll have to start over. But you won’t lose count, will you? You won’t lose count.”

“No, master. I won’t lose count.”

She was exhausted. She was in pain. But she could see the end. And he was giving her what she needed. Because after punishment came forgiveness. It cleansed her of her sins.

She counted. He struck. Sometimes she gasped. Sometimes she screamed. Some of the strokes were swats. Some of them arrived with all the weight of his body behind them. She never knew what was coming. But she gave herself up to all of them. She gave herself up to the pain. She tried to relax under the blows and concentrate on counting and hold on as the end grew nearer and nearer.

“48.”

A solid stroke.

“49.”

A slightly lighter one.

“50!”

He hit her so hard he thought the cane would break.

She screamed one last time. And then started to cry. He threw down the cane and gathered her in his arms.

“Shh… shh… it’s ok, kitten… It’s ok now… It’s all over… You’re forgiven… You’re my good kitten now… shh… shh…”

He stroked her hair, he kissed the tears, he reached into the cooler he had told her to prepare and brought out a bottle of water. He poured the welcome liquid carefully between her lips and she swallowed gratefully. Then he eased her down onto the carpet, on her belly. The cooler’s contents included a large bag of frozen peas. He covered her buttocks with a dish towel and applied the bag of peas as a cold compress. Then he returned to stroking her hair while the air filled with mingled murmurs of apology and forgiveness.

A post a day keeps depression away

Well, maybe not. But the philosopher has decided that I should post daily.

he is right, of course. i'm rather scattered and unfocused, and having specific tasks gives me a sense of direction and confinement which helps keep me facing the right way. It's as if he has put me in a harness, with a bit in my mouth. even at a distance he holds the reins in his hands. he tries to keep me going forward rather than straying off the path to munch on grass or chase a squirrel. it's odd using a horse image for a kitten, but it takes so much strength and effort to keep me controlled and progressing that I might as well be a large lumbering beast.

you may notice a measure of inconsistency in my use of capitalization. i am most definitely not one of those owned submissives who has adopted by choice or obedience lower case letters for herself and upper case for her Master (for example). since the beginning, the philosopher and i have been feeling our way through this relationship, which is rooted in D/s but is so much more. as he said to me very early on, we are making it up as we go along. our rules are our own. so don't go sending out the D/s Capitalization Police to haul me away. in any case, the only one allowed to imprison or otherwise punish me is the philosopher, and he is a very jealous and possessive master indeed.

no, the inconsistent capitalization is due to sheer laziness combined with weak typing skills. the fewer extra details i have to worry about the better.

a more important issue is - why a blog anyway? and for whom?

certainly, the world doesn't need another blog. if the curtains are ever opened and the public allowed to peek in, i don't expect the grass outside our fantasy house will be trampled by a greedy public hungry for the details of our relatively gentle bdsm adventures. so it's not for them - although of course any readers are very welcome, and invited to sit down with us for tea and oatmeal cookies. i will serve you wearing a little white half-apron and nipple bells.

is it for the philosopher? yes, of course, everything is for you, you own me and thus all my efforts are for you. i want to please you. i want your approval. i want you to be proud of me. i want you to stroke my hair and say "good kitten" in that voice that would make me do anything, endure anything, just to be caressed with those two little words.

but in the end, i must admit, it is for myself.

on April 13 of 2007, a couple of months into an intense on-line D/s relationship with the potential of becoming something more, i went roaming around Google looking for information and guidance and a clue as to what goes on in the mind and libido of a dominant man. i stumbled on roper, the English Gentleman, whose blog was unfortunately abruptly discontinued last october. i was impressed by his writing and helped by his musings. i wrote to say thank you, as well as to blurt out to someone, anyone, how my life had been turned upside down. he made some useful comments, suggested some blogs by submissives which i still follow, and asked if i'd thought to start my own blog. i was flattered, but dismissed the idea. the philosopher and i were learning, exploring, and had yet to meet in person, so i doubted i had anything to offer anyone else. however, roper and i continued our correspondence. he was the recipient of a sort of blog-for-one, serving as an outside ear, a helpful commentator, and a structure for my over-intellectualizing as i contemplated my desires, fears, and very wet panties.

i didn't comment publicly on anyone else's blog until after the philosopher and i met in person, 6 months to the day after i'd posted my ad to craigslist.

so why go public now? (if anyone but the philosopher is reading this, he must have given me permission to go public. it is all up to him.)

partly pride, combined with amusement and guilt, over having passed 1,000 peeks at my profile without my having anything to offer in return. (Congratulations to David for being the thousandth visitor, and thanks for letting me see that milestone. i suppose you should get some sort of reward?)

partly guilt (again guilt...) over the length of the comments i leave elsewhere, which has made me think i need space of my own where i can babble on for as long as i'd like.

partly the hope that if i am writing for the public i will learn to babble less.

partly the desire/need for approval and praise. i am a sub, after all... plus my self-esteem is a bit shaky these days and i need to be reminded that i am good at something.

partly in hope of inspiring discussion. do please tell me how clever i am. but after that please leave a long, thoughtful, challenging comment. not nasty. i really don't like nasty. i might get snide if you're nasty and i'm not sure the philosopher would approve.

well then. i've babbled way too much. in general, i'm hoping that blogging will teach me to trim and revise and edit, but this post is by way of an introduction so everything had to go in there. i'll be more efficient in the future. the philosopher will see to that.